


god who ate everything

by caesarions



Series: tantae molis erat! [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Angst, Enemies, Hurt, M/M, Other, Punic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-26 01:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14989697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesarions/pseuds/caesarions
Summary: —did this world feed you?The pallid web of peace sticking the Mediterranean together since the last war is cut into pieces. To discuss just how unhappy the Romans are that Carthage is not dead yet, Carthage himself is called to Rome. Easier said than done, as he has been under the ancient equivalent of house arrest for years and is barely fit to board a boat. What's worse, to test his limits, the living ghost nation must travel much deeper into Italy than anticipated. Along the way, Carthage faces supernatural feelings centuries-buried before he faces his final grave.Somewhat of a sequel to 'the currency of life is time', my other story in this collection. Can be read alone.





	1. urbanus

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: written by ruth awad in “amor fati”. guess what? she's lebanese like anysus :-)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: egypt, greece, and rome are the canon characters that you know and love, just with human names selected by me. you could insert your own headcanon names, too. carthage, etruria, and timandros are my own aph ancients ocs, and i wanted to do this project so i could introduce more people to them! if you want more information on my ocs' background before reading this fic, then just visit my website at https://anysusandaranth.weebly.com/.
> 
> NAMES:
> 
> ancient egypt - sekhet (one who is powerful)
> 
> ancient greece - helen (shining bright)
> 
> carthage - anysus barca (lost to history, lightning)
> 
> etruria - aranth repesuna (prince, lost to history)
> 
> macedon - timandros (glory of man)
> 
> rome - lucius marius priscus romulus (shining; of mars or masculine; ancient; the mythical founder, 'mr. rome')

**150 BC, Rome, Lazio**

* * *

No carriages in Rome during the day, but they said naught about horses. Anysus had half a mind to race up to Romulus’ front doorstep with the mare he’d been gifted to get him this far. There, he would jump the shrubs into Romulus’ courtyard and wreak havoc, having the midnight black mare stomp and stomp on Romulus’ most exotic flowers.

If this was the first war.

It was soon to be the third.

Whatever Romulus said today, Anysus felt it in his bones, for skin and bones were all he had left. Thankfully, food was not a problem for his people. Though Numidia raided the border relentlessly, Carthage’s farms and food stores lay along the fertile coast. They had destroyed one Punic town, Oroscopa, but both as a blessing and a curse, the population that immigrated to Carthage was too small to impact the stores. Carthage lost the battle against Numidia and was charged with a fifty year debt, but after paying off one, Anysus could pay them all. Anysus wasn’t present for the battle, and no one could really blame him.

No, it was only he. Anysus did not make the food—the slaves did—but he did not have enough energy to put it into his mouth. He did not even have enough will to get out of bed.

Numidia was the very reason he was here today, Anysus thought as he struggled to stay atop the horse. Carthage repaid its debt from the second war last year, so they assumed the treaty was over. Since the treaty was over, and one part had called for all of Carthage’s military activity to halt, Carthage could finally defend itself again from the Numidians chewing at its borders without Roman permission.

Silly, silly Carthage. Of course the Romans would think of the treaty as straight from the gods, Carthage signing itself into servitude with the blood of thousands as its ink. Nothing was to happen in the Mediterranean without a Roman stamp of approval. Just as the Romans’ treaties with the other Italians had done.

Just as the Etruscans had done.

Now, Romulus wanted to talk about it. Wanted to talk about Anysus following in his Etruscan lover’s footsteps by just… disappearing.

It did not seem like the worst idea in the world.

“How long do you think you’ll be, _ba’al_?” asked a middle-aged sailor, named Bomilcar, of his lord.

Having dropped off his steed at the stables outside Rome, they were waiting in line at the city gates now. Despite Anysus’ destructive fantasy, there was no need to expose the poor horse to that environment. The crowd might spook him. Bomilcar, relatively fit and free of trauma, had made the entire journey on foot. Though he was in a hurry, Anysus didn’t wish to cut in front of any humans. Even if it was fraternizing with the enemy, they probably had important business to conduct.

Anysus raised an eyebrow. “You are worrying me, Bomilcar. Should it be longer than a day?”

“You never know what’s afoot with a Roman,” Bomilcar drawled. “Do we even know where we’re going?”

The Carthaginian man crossed his arms. “Romulus is a man of many talents. He usually says what he means, but he can be cryptic, too. He said he would meet us at the northernmost gate for some reason. I rode around this side of the Servian Wall three times, and I am pretty sure this gate is it.”

“It is the farthest from the sea,” Bomilcar offered, though one should never attempt to explain Romulus’ behavior. “I know he’s afraid she would swallow him right up. I think he’s too ugly for her.”

They shifted forward in line. “You have never met him, Bomilcar.”

“But isn’t that what you said Helen told him?” the generic Carthaginian sailor shrugged.

“You’ve been hanging around me too long,” Anysus huffed. His mouth twitched, just a little; Bomilcar caught it and broke into a stupid grin.

It was not to last. Anysus had a strange feeling the entire time he was surveying the wall, and now, the repugnance returned in full blast, striking an arrow deep into his gut. They were supposed to move forward, but entering the foreboding shadow of the wall would cast a similar darkness over Anysus’ heart.

“Uh, _ba’al_?” he heard Bomilcar saying somewhere, but nowhere nearby, hidden behind a layer of fog. Then came shouts. Someone was tugging on an arm, but it wasn’t Anysus’. “ _Ba’al_! _Ba’al_!”

The real Anysus was in this spot fifty years ago, a campsite narrowly escaping the shadow of the Servian Wall, screaming over the thunderstorm outside of Hannibal’s tent. The general was making the biggest mistake of his life. It didn’t matter if he had rethought it, feeling unprepared and underequipped. The Romans refused to leave Capua alone, not taking Hannibal’s threat seriously. Well, then they had to give Rome something to take seriously! Had old age finally done the Barcid in? Was he afraid of drowning like his father? The Tiber was on the other side of the city, but good riddance! Thunder clapped in Ba’al Hammon’s skies, and the gods were on Anysus’ side. They knew this was all he ever dreamed of, for Aranth’s sake. _We’re not sieging Rome, we’re not sieging Rome_ , Hannibal taunted him in his dreams. Anysus could return the treatment tenfold. Grabbing the wool tent flaps, Anysus ripped and pulled, pulled them off its sticks—

“Anysus!”

It was like the entire Gulf of Tunis had been dumped on his head. The fog was not so much lifted as it was cut through, and whatever instrument had done it stuck in Anysus’ heart, right below the arrow.

Anysus had a coughing fit that threatened to rattle his bones, his only possession. “That rat bastard,” he wheezed. “That filthy rat bastard!”

“No offence, my _ba’al_ , but people are staring,” Bomilcar whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go be a geriatric at the front of the line.” He gently grabbed Anysus’ forearm and led him on like a poor, blind dog.

Bomilcar was right. Anysus couldn’t help himself and looked back as they walked forward. Anysus had caused a scene before, and his very appearance—abnormally tall (if he was in Greece or Rome), a deep bronze, powerfully built, unapologetically Semitic—was a sight in itself. The humans trying to enter the city fairly just like him were trying to find an explanation in each other. They either glanced everywhere but Anysus or glared straight at him. Gritting his teeth, Anysus hoped his face looked sorry.

But it probably didn’t; everyone thought he was royally pissed all the time.

“ _Ba’al_ , what was that about?” Bomilcar murmured over the din of the line. He dropped Anysus’ arm only once they were standing still.

“I’m sorry,” Anysus apologized. He had to study the gate to be sure, so the Carthaginian took a shaky breath, the Roman air burning his esophagus. His flashbacks never lied, so he should have trusted it the first time; Anysus gazed at the agger too long and slipped. His eyes rolled back into a gray mist.

Smiling a deadly white, this Anysus was gods-blessed, in the prime of his life. Instead back at the campsite, they were right against the wall. He was standing beside Hannibal—proudly, for the first time in a long time. After forcing him to trample on the Etruscans’ grave, his paramour’s grave, Hannibal had finally done him right. The Romans’ attempt at fortifying their northern wall was pathetic. Had they dug the trench by Roman proportions? Mago, were you taller than that wall? And a wall of dirt? Everyone knew Carthage was lined with sandstone and gold. All the Carthaginian officers laughed. Anysus lifted his dagger and pointed it straight at the Porta Collina. They just had to—

Anysus felt himself by slapped on the back—and it was himself, this time.“As ship captain, I need a pay raise if you’re going to do this all the time,” Bomilcar huffed. The hand on Anysus’ back walked him forward again.

“I’m really sorry,” Anysus apologized, wringing his hands. “You can have a a slice of my home when we get back.”

Bomilcar chuckled, “I would prefer a paid vacation to where there are no Romans.”

“That is the middle of the sea, and you’ve been there.” Anysus wrapped his arms around himself and looked at the ground. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. I just know why Romulus wanted to meet us at this gate now.”

“Oh,” Bomilcar blinked, “why?”

The Carthaginian leaned in until the two men’s noses threatened to touch. His voice lowered to a venomous hiss. “Because this is where I lost.”

Bomilcar really didn’t deserve any of this. As Anysus’ ship captain, he was the only one on deck privy to Anysus’ identity. Another part of the second war’s treaty limited the Carthaginian navy to ten ships—to fight pirates, the Romans had said. They were too kind. Since that was nowhere near enough, the cothon, Carthage’s protected, round harbor for the imperial navy, was instead filled with generous donations by private merchants donating their own ships. Anysus was one of these men, and since he was not mentally well enough to run his mercantile business, donated every last one. For the last decade, Bomilcar coordinated Anysus’ ships coming and going, repaired the pirates’ damage, and captained Anysus’ personal vessel.

If Anysus was not well enough to run a business, then he was not well enough to leave the country. The third part of Bomilcar’s job description was not often used. The only point of traveling to Anysus was to see Aranth.

And to do that now, he would have to die.

“I won’t ask anymore questions about it, _ba’al_ ,” Bomilcar promised. Since this was Anysus’ first time out in years, the sailor felt personally responsible for Anysus, though centuries older than the human. Thus, he followed the other off of the boat without letting Anysus ask any questions.

Once they stood under the Porta Collina, Romulus’ entourage reached them before border check could. Maybe it was more convenient that way, but it sure brought more attention to Anysus—even more than he had already brought himself. As a stupid child, Romulus was going to expose himself someday.

“Are you Anysus Barca?” a head slave inquired, jogging towards them. He was short and ginger, yet his ethnically ambiguous tan placed him from all and none of the Mediterranean nations at once.

“That depends on who you ask.” Anysus crossed his arms.

“Great,” the other said, not missing a beat. Gods, Romans had no sense of humor. “I am Geta, Romulus’ head slave, supervisor. We are here to escort you through the city. We brought a _lectica_.” We?, Anysus thought. But the slave waved behind him, and suddenly, he multiplied into four more slaves behind him. They all bore the wooden litter on their shoulders, sweating like pigs in the Italian sun.

Anysus immediately stepped back. “No thank you.”

Both Bomilcar and the Roman raised their eyebrows. “They’ll have to carry it back with or without you on it,” Bomilcar pointed out. Without saying it aloud because of Geta present, Bomilcar made eye contact with Anysus’ shaking knees.

“Then you use it,” Anysus shrugged. “Someone has to.”

Bomilcar didn’t need to be told twice. Anysus saw Geta scrunch his nose up and Bomilcar swung up carelessly, not even letting the litter bearers lower it to the ground. Their eyes all bulged with surprise, but it was time to be off.

Anysus reluctantly entered into the circus, the traffic flow moving them along like the hounds of hell. Geta walked beside him as if leading Anysus to his execution.

Not even Bomilcar could enjoy himself. As they descended into the unfeeling heart of the city, he glanced down at Anysus and whispered in Punic, “I’m a little intimidated.”  
Anysus shot back, “You live in a city, Bomilcar.”

“I know I do,” the sailor huffed, “but everyone in Carthage is slow and friendly.”

“Yeah. If there is one thing the Romulus did not pillage from Aranth before killing his older brother,” Anysus said, “it was his good attitude.”  

Geta apparated between the two men. “What was that?”

Names did not change between languages. Bomilcar turned his body away, and Anysus gave the slave a saccharine smile.

“As right hand man, you must spend a lot of time in Romulus’ study,” Anysus offered in conversation, over a cacophony of day drunk plebeians beside them. Dear Tanit, it was barely morn.

“I do, in fact,” Geta nodded. “My _dominus_ lives and breathes in his _tablinum_ , pardon the pun. One of my jobs is ordering his daily correspondence by importance. Cleaning every week.”

Anysus squinted. If he had ever gotten a letter written with such bullshit, performative language, then he knew who wrote it.

“Ah, of course.” The Carthaginian pursed his lips. “Does Romulus have, oh, a hitlist in his office?”

Geta raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

“Does he hang up my letters and throw darts at them?” Anysus stared down the shorter slave. “Or does he burn them over a candle?”

“Well,” Geta began, meeting Anysus’ gaze in a challenge. “What do you do to his letters?”

Anysus lost the visual battle, so he glanced down at the ancient cobblestone street. “Personally, I drown them.”

Everyone was silent for the rest of the walk. They had to descend the Quirinal and weave between three other hills before reaching the Palatine. Really, a city only needed one hill, Anysus thought. His home on the Byrsa had never done him any wrong. Living next to Carthage’s temples added leverage to his identity as a god, and living next to the earliest gravesites was oddly comforting.

Anysus knew Romulus chose the Palatine for the very same reason, to be connected to his history. But Anysus was still allowed to critique his decorating.

As Romulus’ domus came into view, Anysus’ hairs immediately stood on end. It was no different than any other rich Roman’s house; surprisingly, he had no gold statues of himself or anything fancy. Perhaps it was only the Romans’ distaste for furniture that stopped him and not a normal ego. A shop faced the front, and the tender seemed amiable enough—probably because if he did not, he would be beaten. The outside was a plain terracotta, painted with detailing here and there, paired with sanguine roof tiles. If Anysus always forgot the layout of his sprawling mansion because he was always away on business, he wondered if Romulus was the same way—always out killing people.

Either way, Geta led the entourage into the _vestibulum_ , an entrance hall that ran the lengths of the shops. It kept the main entrance off the streets, but Romulus wouldn’t need to if he lived in a nice city. The shadow of the columns passed over Anysus, one after the other, leading him into the belly of the beast.

“And here we are,” Geta singsonged once the group reached the atrium. He waved again to the entire room, which was… dark..

Bomilcar had one leg swung off the litter when Anysus raised his hand. “Stop.”

The sailor looked confused, but the slave only met Anysus’ eyes. He folded his hands behind his back. “Is something amiss, Anysus?”

“Where,” Anysus said, “is he?”

“What’s wrong? It’s a little plain, but if he’s the king of darkness, he has to live in a lair of darkness,” Bomilcar jested. He had swung his other leg around and was now sitting on the edge of the litter.

“Stop,” Anysus repeated emphatically. Surrounding the atrium in a Roman _domus_ were all the bedrooms in the house and two open alcoves. Dismissing himself with a grand sweep of his arm, Anysus went to check all of them.

There was no reason for Romulus to be in the guest bedrooms, but that’s exactly why he would be there. Anysus checked them first, but there was only a bed on its indicated spot on the mosaic floor and nothing more.

Romulus took the bedroom closest to his study, so Anysus headed there next. It was no different than the guest bedrooms except for a higher quality paint and bed. And yet, Romulus was still nowhere to be seen. The bed was made pristinely.

While jogging through the atrium, he hid his face from Bomilcar and Geta watching the event unfold with piqued eyebrows. As one last desperate attempt, Anysus forced his way into the study. It was where the Roman spent most of his time—in the house. If he was elsewhere, it was a brothel or something.

In the study, the lattice shelves seemed strangely empty in places, or at least the amount of scrolls had dwindled since the last time Anysus was here. No candles were lit for someone to work by. When Anysus approached Romulus’ regal oak desk, there was an mountain of mail. If he was not in his study, then there was no use checking the back of the house; he was not anywhere.

Instead of jogging, Anysus walked back out of the office with his head hung low. Everyone had their arms crossed and bore holes into him with their eyes.

Anysus should have known. Anysus felt Romulus’ presence, but he didn’t feel it as close as it once was. Anysus subconsciously figured that it was just because Rome was expanding and fighting in many places right now.

Continuing to walk slowly, as if trudging through the depths of the sea, Anysus eventually came to the rainwater pool in the center of the atrium. Ba’al Hammon’s sky became lapis lazuli as the sun had begun its ascent into the sky; this fact was reflected in the pool. Not only did the sunny weather mock Anysus, a flash momentarily blinded his tired eyes, too. He covered his face with a large hand and leaned precariously over the the water. When he was finished squinting, the only thing in the dark pool staring back at him was his reflection.

The house was sterilely uninhabited.

“He wanted me to have an emotional catharsis,” Anysus turned and shouted at Geta, “when he wasn’t even here to see it. And I bet he’s not even in the rest of the damn city, either!”

Geta pressed his thin lips together. “I did not know what that part of the plan was for. My _dominus_ did not share.”

Anysus broiled at his unnecessary reveal. Of course Geta wouldn’t know everything. He was just a slave. Still, Anysus had no one else to project on. “A plan. A fucking plan! Why can’t this man do one thing without being normal?”

“Because he is not a man,” Geta said, “and only you would understand.”

Bomilcar and Anysus looked at each other. They both wanted to throttle the smaller Roman slave—it was only a question of who would go first.

“How long has he already been away, and how long am I going to wait?” Anysus asked. He started tapping his foot on the ground. Between that and his incessant pacing, it was a wonder that Anysus still had sandals at all.

Geta crossed his arms behind his back instead of in front. “A positive of this situation is that you will not wait a bit.” He took a second to breathe, steeling his body for the worst. “A negative of this situation is that you will be coming to Romulus.”

As soon as the words left the other’s mouth, Anysus lunged. He grabbed Geta by the arm, somewhere that wouldn’t truly hurt him. “Where is he, then?”

“Don’t kill the messenger!” Geta squeaked. “He’s at his villa outside the city.”

With that, Anysus stood proud. “I’m going home.”

He turned on his heel. The wall paintings of Roman myths, macabre in the darkness, laughed at the foreigner with open mouths as he left. This was no place for him, anyway.

“Wait!” Geta shouted, chasing Anysus down the entrance hall, one of the paintings come to life. “It is less than a day’s ride away. You would be there by nightfall.”

Anysus kept walking. “There is no reason for me to go running after Romulus with my tail between my legs. No matter what he thinks, I am not in servitude to him.”

“There is a reason,” Geta argued fiercely. He returned Anysus’ arm grab, but geta had to use both hands to fit around Anysus’ bicep. “You will have to find out what it is.”

At that, Anysus finally stopped and turned around. He scrunched up his entire face. “Did he really think that vague prophecy was going to work on me?”

The slave led—or attempted to lead—Anysus back to the atrium by pulling on his arm. “Well, he was not quite sure which version would work on you. The specific reason is that, if you do not go and meet him, Romulus will tell the government to declare war on Carthage.”

“What an empty threat,” Anysus guffawed, but his confidence also rang hollow. “He’s going to run and tell his mommy.”

After letting go of the other’s arm, Geta stepped back. “Its gravity is for you to decide,” he muttered, looking up through his eyelashes, which cast spidery shadows from the hole in the roof above.

Ignoring the presence of everyone else, Anysus began pacing around the rainwater pool. The water was the only familiar thing in this house of haunts. Water never betrayed, even when Anysus lost the first war because Romulus stole their ship design and invented the _corvus_. It was cowardly to climb onto the enemy ship and fight on sacred decks. Romulus betrayed the water first.

Geta had spoken in such an odd tone, quite arcane for a normal human. The problem was… Anysus really didn’t know. Each nation interacted with its government differently. Anysus advised the two suffetes in power and had a permanent spot on the Tribunal of the Hundred and Four. But the suffetes didn’t have to listen to him, and he only had one vote like the rest of the humans.

Now was the only time Anysus regretted not knowing more about Romulus. He worked in the Senate, sure, but how much? Were the Roman consuls in the pocket of their representative? War was coming; Anysus just wasn’t sure how soon.

It was up in the air.

And the fate of Anysus’ people, his lifeline and his children, never could be.

“I’ll go,” Anysus spat acerbicly at Geta’s feet. “I’ll meet the bastard. I’m already on his home territory, and at this point, it seems I’ve never left.” Surely, his heart and soul hadn’t.

“Romulus thought you would say that,” Geta reported. Anysus held up a hand when Bomilcar pointed his fists at the slave. Bomilcar frowned sheepishly. Geta continued, “We have a carriage prepared outside of the city.”

“You would be riding alone?” Bomilcar said, aghast. “Do you think that’s a good idea, _ba’al_? They could do whatever in Melqart’s realm they want with you. Beat you up, lead you to the wrong place, leave you to die.”

Again, Anysus glanced down at his reflection in the stagnant water. “At this point, it wouldn’t make much of a difference, Bomilcar.”

A pregnant silence reigned for what seemed like hours. It was only a few minutes, but national representatives were notoriously bad with time. Anysus ruled the conversation, and he was reflecting on just exactly what he was getting himself into. Eventually, Geta overrode his servile tendencies and spoke first.

“So, is it all settled then?” he asked slowly, looking between the two Punic men. “I highly recommend sleeping in a villa over sleeping in a wooden torture box.”

“That doesn’t matter either,” Anysus harrumphed. “Just take me to the damn thing, then. And if the carriage is by the Porta Callina, then I want it moved.”

Geta’s mouth twisted. “We can do that.”

By gods, of course it was.

Bomilcar was still sitting awkwardly on the side of the litter. His brows were furrowed, carving deep lines of concern in his forehead. Casting a hostile glance at Geta, he switched to Punic. “Do you want me to come, _ba’al_? Because I will. I don’t feel comfortable with this entire setup. I know you’re immortal, but you don’t look the part,” he all but equivocated. “You also don’t have an internal navigation system on foreign ground. They could take you anywhere. How do you get back?”

Anysus gave Bomilcar a lengthy look that almost melted his features, pulling them forlornly to the ground.

He didn’t know.

“You’re a sailor,” Anysus sighed softly, wringing his hands. “Stay with the ship.”

Bomilcar wiggled his arms anxiously. “And if you don’t come back?”

“I can’t die unless everyone in Carthage dies,” Anysus reassured him. Almost as soon as the lie left his mouth, Anysus shook and shuddered. Aranth had died while lots of Etruscans still lived. Anysus never figured out if it was because the Etruscan League, symbolizing a unified identity, had disbanded, or if it was because the people had lost their culture during Roman annexation. There was no telling all the ways a nation could die.

There was only one truth: Romulus had killed his older brother during Rome’s expansion into Italy, and Anysus dedicated his life to returning the same treatment to him.

“Go back to the ship and wait a few days,” Anysus repeated.

Bomilcar blinked. “Can I at least take the litter back?”

The answer would not come from Geta, for, yawning, Geta had already begun walking out while the men were still talking. Anysus couldn’t quite blame him for not respecting national identity and personal connection when he lived in the house of Romulus. Anysus had to sprint to catch up, which his old knees protested loudly.

If the countryside villa story was to be believed, he was leaving behind a home that stood for Roman history for a home that stood for Roman new money wastefulness. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

And all because Carthage dared defend itself.


	2. rusticus

By the time settlement ended and countryside began, the sun was drooping in the sky.

Anysus had been provided a quick lunch at the _domus_ , some bread and cheese and salted leftovers, and he had made sure to take as long as he could. He even wrapped some bread in a napkin because there was no guarantee the Roman would feed him again. Incidentally, Anysus also took an eternity to reach the carriage. Climbing down the Palatine revealed the failure of his coordination, Geta staring at him as if he was drunk. Climbing up the Quirinal almost reduced Anysus to crawling. Granted, he had to climb the Byrsa everyday, but it was his land; it understood him and cared for him.

The city was hostile ground.

This, however, seemed a little different.

While staring out of the open window, Anysus tore the gifted bread into little pieces. He had left all his jewelry at home for fear of robbery, so Anysus had no rings to fiddle with on his fingers. It was no loss; he threw the crumbs to any ravens and carrion crows he saw on the way, and they all cawed appreciatively.

Geta had not even come, though the  _cisium_ seated two people, so Anysus was alone in the cart. It made no sense for him to, attached to Romulus’ property in the city, but Anysus could have weaseled information out of him. Or perhaps made a friend—an inside ally, at the least.

Maybe Romulus wanted him to be alone the entire time. Anysus had not planned on Bomilcar tagging along, either. If he had faced the Porta Callina alone, he would have collapsed and wailed, would have not made it past the Servian Walls. That’s what Romulus really wanted. He never even wanted to see Anysus, so he could say Anysus bailed, declaring war with divine reasoning. And in better conscience, as he would never have to face the withering state that _he_ had reduced Anysus to.

Anysus had been provided only one cushion for the journey, not enough to sleep on. Romulus was hellbent on getting him to the villa that night.

What if the Carthaginian ship had gotten lost? What if Anysus had dallied in the city? But none of these things would happen, and Romulus knew them. He had studied Anysus’ character too much, just as Anysus should have studied his. Anysus only methodically researched how much he hated Romulus.

And oh, he hated this. He hated everything aligned with Romulus, but mostly, he hated how much he had played into the Roman’s perceptions of him. As predictably boring, vanilla and punctual even in the face of danger, and a pawn to be manipulating using his love for his people.

And his love for the deceased Aranth.

Looking outside, Anysus couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. He pulled back the curtains entirely and stuck his head further outside the window. Directly outside Rome had been a number of small plebeian farms, dotting—or massacring—the landscape with distant patches of plain, muddy brown. Some even had livestock. Clouds were tethered to the land in the form of sheep, whose wool was dyed topaz and gold. in the afternoon sunshine. Before the Etruscans had fallen, that was as many riches as Rome could get. Anysus had desperately wished he was at a party, eating sheep’s cheese with the departed Etruscan, but it was not to be.

Something was, though. He saw a few humans tilling the lands, so once the independent farms had departed, Anysus should have felt alone. After all, that is the emotion Romulus had dedicated his life to making Anysus feel, and Anysus was willingly tangling himself in the Roman’s bondage these days.

These emerald and peridot hills seemed familiar. Anysus had spent a considerable amount of time here before. He could have blamed it on the second war where Hannibal invaded Italy. However, that only took fifteen years, a mere blink of the eye for a nation like Anysus, who had sprouted from a desert colony to an empire overnight. It was probably even less time to the older, Bronze Age nations like Sekhet. He had been extremely upset at Hannibal’s marching route. First, it was bad enough that innocent war elephants had to die on their odyssey through the Alps. Anysus’ own pet elephant, who he had brought for company instead of fighting, only made it through because he was small, as his slowed growth and immortality came from his owner. After the coldest temperatures of Anysus’ life, he complained to his pet elephant about Hannibal’s route in Italy, which traversed all the territory that used to belong to the Etruscans, now annexed but his upstart little brother. The land was a physical reminder of the pain of losing a loved one.

The news of Aranth’s death was recent, as Romulus only mentioned it in passing while they discussed the treaty to end the first war. It was all a ploy, a distraction, as Anysus had been too busy fighting faraway naval battles to notice. Aranth had not mentioned the beginning of his demise, either. Neither of the two older powers ever dreamed of Romulus going so far. Anysus would always remember Romulus as a little boy at Veii, vying for Aranth’s attention, Anysus and Aranth a relationship he was too young to understand. He stared at Anysus with round, bulging eyes, perhaps the evil eye, and the naked hostility followed Anysus around at Veii.

Suddenly, Anysus jumped up. He lost himself on the wooden seat and fell to the floor of the carriage.

That was it. This was Veii.

Anysus was going to be sick, and he knew it. He crawled up to his seat again, either like a newborn or an old man facing death, and leaned his head out of the window. Quite unlucky, this was the only day out of many where there was even a nominal amount of food in his stomach.

Someone shouted; the horses whinnied. In the rational part of his mind, Anysus knew they were about to stop and could have prepared himself for the blow. But he didn’t. He was thrown to the side, his neck colliding with the edge of the window as the cart halted.

“Ah!” A nervous driver popped out from behind the vehicle. The man, stout and ruddy-faced from his outdoor job, hopped from foot to foot. Anysus thought Geta had said his name was Syrus. He dared come no closer because of the… “Are you alright, there? Do you need to rest?”

Anysus coughed into his hand. The man almost jumped back into one of the horses.

“No,” Anysus shook his head out of sympathy for the poor driver. “Does Romulus always take this route?”

“He usually steers clear of the farms, the villas, and the city,” the slave confessed. “That avoidance does take him longer, though. Did you ask for a tour?”

Anysus’ lips twisted acrimoniously. “Sure.”

The driver nodded, returned to his seat, and they were on their way. Based on his statement, Anysus had only seen one of the attractions that replaced the Etruscans’ land. Oh, there was so much more in store.

The complete destruction of Veii was not a mystery to Anysus, as it had happened more than a century before the First Punic War. Some Roman dictator marched on the city, killed all the adult males, and enslaved all the women and children. Romulus destroying both he and Anysus’ and childhood home, where Aranth babysat them both, should have been the catalyst for Aranth’s outrage. Blinded by familial ties, Aranth thought it was his fault, and that Romulus could do better.

It was nothing against his lover, but Anysus desperately hoped Aranth’s ghost knew he was wrong.

Anysus stuck his head out of the window for the final time. They had traveled some distance when Anysus finally realized just what the driver meant. It was not his fault; he was only the messenger.

This far out from Rome began the patrician villas. Anysus thought the tiny plots of land were desecration, but now, those seemed few and far between. In contrast to the welcoming, sloping hills of his childhood, the Carthaginian was surrounded by mechanically and symmetrically tilled land on all sides. Instead of having a mystical quality, the land now boiled over with the leathery feeling of hard work—hard work not put in by the Romans. Ba’al Hammon’s skies disapproved, as today’s sunset became an ugly scarlet instead of its usual pastel hues. It turned the naked ground black. Though a villa entrance would never be this close to the road, Anysus unfortunately the sprawling complexes dotted in the distance. It took away from the wild appeal, especially the forest, which Anysus could see a lot of places had cut down.

None of these draping estates were here when Anysus was for the second war. There were some in other places in Italy, of course, which Carthage had raided during the war. Hannibal even set some farms aflame, an act which Anysus took no part in because of his… issues.

It probably took less moxie to create villas in previously Greek or Gaulish lands than it did your older brother’s funeral pyre.

But Romulus did it all the same. Since these were constructed after the war, Anysus hated to think that Carthaginian debt was paying for them.

He was going to be sick again.

At this point, there was nothing else for the bone-tired nation to do than stay in his wooden prison. Without the means or space to lie down, Anysus leaned against the wall opposite the window, just in case anything else happened.

Just because he was exhausted didn’t mean he could stop holding Romulus responsible.

It was a long time before anything else did happen, though, and it was the very last leg of the journey. Twilight had fallen, finally bathing the land in the purple that Anysus prided himself on, and the stars blinked comfortingly just outside of the window. Smiling appreciatively, Anysus could almost doze off, despite resting against the moving equivalent of a tomb.

Though his eyes were closed, Anysus could feel in his heart when they were passing by something. He still sensed a hint, just a hint, of a foreign presence, just enough to tickle his rib-cage, springing Anysus into action.

When he opened his eyes, a shadow passed over him.

Ba’al Hammon’s skies must have been trying to protect him when they went black. Even the all-powerful gods could not do everything, though, and Anysus could see the silhouettes in stark contrast.

The outline of abandoned Veii.

Though not news to Anysus, a fresh, life-threatening wound slashed through Anysus’ chest—either that, or an ancient wound reopened. It was difficult to tell these days. Both blossomed equally as bloodily.

Veii was still abandoned during the second war. Since Hannibal’s death march went through the old Etruscan capital, Anysus had already seen his childhood sanctuary destroyed. He had gone to Aranth’s palace in ruins and salvaged anything the Romans had not pillaged. Incidentally, this meant most of the pieces Anysus had gifted Aranth, for they were too foreign for Roman decorating.

It was a different kind of pain, this time. The pernicious damnation of Veii evolved each time Anysus saw it. Aranth’s own land was turning against him now; tall grasses obscured the paths. Vines of ivy climbed the buildings and held them in a chokehold. Once used for defense, Mediterranean garrigue split apart the brick walls at the root, if the terracotta was not already crumbling. And that was all Anysus could see with his failing eyesight in the deep dark. Losna, goddess of the moon, had departed this land along with the other Etruscan deities; it was a new moon, and she refused to show her face to the ruins of her people.

Anysus took a page out of Losna’s book. He pulled the curtains shut so violently that it reminded him of tearing Hannibal’s tent. Swallowing empty sobs, he turned his face from the countryside for good. Unlike the food, there was no water nearby, and no water in Anysus for him to actually cry. Instead of falling on the floor, Anysus hit his uncomfortable wooden seat and passed out.

What was worse—reusing Veii for Roman purposes or ignoring it entirely, letting his older brother’s legacy go to rot?

 

Nearing midnight now, the visage of the villa was lit so brightly with torches that it looked like a wildfire among the treeline. If Romulus wasn’t careful, it could become one.

If Anysus wasn’t careful, he could become one.

The Carthaginian had only roused awake when the carriage hit a bump, the road branching off into Romulus’ driveway. You would think he had enough Carthaginian debt money to pave that transition better.

After seeing previously Etruscan land mangled for all it stood for, to both Aranth and Anysus, he was emotionally wrung out. There was nothing that could affect him now, not even as they rolled past Romulus’ gluttonous vineyards.

Perhaps a bit too late, Anysus realized he heard water, too. Veii and its surrounding lands were not on the coast. If Anysus had to bet his life on the source, he would say the Tiber. Every representative was a through proponent of their nation’s white lies, but none more so than Romulus and his river. If Aranth had not given him the Etruscan first name of Lucius, he probably would have picked Tiberius. Aranth had found his little brother on that river.

Hopefully, Romulus would die on that river.

Once the vineyards subsided, there was no more hiding for Anysus, as the villa entrance stood front and center. On the porch stood the man of the hour, Lucius Marius Priscus Romulus. The portico shrouded him in more darkness Anysus ever thought possible during a night. Standing on his staired platform on the top of hill, Romulus looked as tall as ever would.

Before coming to a stop, the driver pulled the _cisium_ sideways so the exit faced the villa’s entrance. It was probably for ease and not because the driver wanted to create a standoff, but that was exactly what would happen.

“Enjoy your visit,” the slave waved with one hand, the other holding the reigns. “I’ll drive you back, too.”

Anysus nodded gratefully. Not everyone in Romulus’ household had to be corrupted. But still like Geta, he made a quick escape to a back stable somewhere. The wheels crunched the gravel below it, and the horses whinnied away into the night.

Then, they were alone.

Anysus climbed the first step. In the form of bile, a monumental amount of dread rose up and almost choked him. The stairs were about as steep as any of the hills in Rome, and by the time Anysus reached the top, his chest was fluttering like a dying animal’s.

They faced each other. The line of torches behind Romulus made his outline glow an otherwordly red. Anysus had to do something audacious, and make it quick, before Romulus did.

Anysus lowered his chin. “Lauchasiu.”

Romulus gave the other a skull-splitting smile. “Karthasiu,” he drawled, dripping false honey onto the word like a poisonous plant. “I am so glad you could make it. Did you enjoy your grand tour of the Roman countryside?”

“Etruscan,” Anysus corrected him emphatically. “Just like your name. I would even take Italian, though. How long have you been waiting here for this reveal?”

“Mere seconds,” Romulus huffed, placing an offended hand on his chest. “I simply heard the carriage coming, old _Carthago_.”

Before Anysus could argue his claim with Romulus’ goosebumps and windswept hair, Romulus linked their arms together. When Anysus jerked his away, Romulus dug his hand in Anysus’ arm until he knew he was leaving white crescent marks in the tan skin.

“Show me to my room,” Anysus spat.

Romulus grinned oddly. “Oh, sure.”

A doorkeeper opened the bronze doors with a snap of Romulus’ fingers. A superfluous amount of light erupted into the night air. Anysus went to cover his face with his arm and found it trapped by Romulus. Romulus dug in harder.

He lead Anysus into the main hall. There was so much artificial light that Anysus had to squint into it. When his antiquated vision adjusted, already, the villa looked like it had not faced one day of wear. Anysus didn’t think Romulus had this villa built just to taunt him, but it was close. It was a subconscious motivation. Despite being much newer than the city _domus_ , the wall paintings was already more elaborate, more refined in nationalist tastes and especially self-aggrandizing. Anysus had given him too much credit in Rome for not having a gold statue because all the painted heroes looked an awful lot like Romulus—short curly hair, big nose, short and fat.

Well, at least that was the way Anysus saw it.

“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Romulus chirped, dragging Anysus into another hall.

Anysus gave him a blank stare. “I didn’t see what it was like originally.”

“I’m not fucking stupid,” Romulus burst, “just making pleasant conversation.”

Finally, Romulus left the hallway to bring Anysus into a room. He let go of the other’s arm, which Anysus was surprised to see wasn’t bruised or bleeding. “Here is where you’ll be staying.”

Anysus looked around. A table sat in the center, a candle in its center, which lit up a spread of fruit around it—which was probably bountiful and homegrown, but under the cover of night infiltrating from outside, they looked like the underworld’s deathly pomegranates. If Anysus ate the seeds of one, surely, he would be here forever.

The table was surrounded by three cream reclining couches. The only other thing in the room were the torches lining the walls, which were painted with banquet scenes of the gods dining.

“This is a dining room,” Anysus deduced.

“You are quite observant,” Romulus chuckled darkly. He pulled back one of the couches and motioned for Anysus. “Please, sit.”

Anysus moved further back, inching towards the door. “I don’t understand.”

The Roman’s face, previously imitating water, now steeled into a glacier. “Our kind doesn’t need sleep,” Romulus claimed. In one swift movement, he grabbed a torch that was hanging on the wall and shoved it an inch away from Anysus’ face. The height difference forced it to illuminate Anysus’ eyebags. “Least of all _you_.”

Anysus would go wherever the fire was not. Romulus swung it in an arc towards the door, so Anysus went back deep into the dining room. Romulus pointed it at him again, and Anysus finally sat down as he was told.

“Now that that’s settled,” Romulus mumbled happily as he returned the torch to its rightful spot. Then, Romulus took his sweet time in sitting on the couch on the opposite side of the table. The Roman looked at Anysus, sitting straight and holding onto his knees, with a smirk.

“First, I must say I am glad it is you who has been my biggest challenge,” Romulus singsonged. “I appreciate it. We know each other so well.”

Anysus glared daggers down at the shorter man. “You killed the one person who truly knew you. I wish I didn’t.”

“I wish I didn’t, either,” Romulus shrugged. He tapped his chin rhythmically with one finger. “It’s fascinating. We know each other’s history. Can use it against each other. No one has called me Lauchasiu, that old childhood diminutive, in years. Etruscan is fleeting these days.”

Anysus lunged forward. “Not since you—”

“Not since I killed him!” Not to be outdone, Romulus stood up and slammed his palms on the table. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. I know the senile can only think of one thing at a time, but I didn’t think you were there yet, _Carthago_.”

“If I am,” Anysus shouted, his legs shaking, “it’s because you’ve pushed me there, you manlet bastard!”

Romulus smiled hauntingly and lowered himself in slow motion to his couch. “This was supposed to be a civilized conversation, Anysus. Look at us now.”

“I can’t look at you without throwing up.” Romulus sat down at a good time; Anysus’ legs gave out, but it looked like he meant to sit down, too. “And, civilized? It’s a good thing we’re in the country.”

A pregnant silence reigned. The only sounds were the wood crackling and the two men huffing in anger.

Romulus continued nebulously, “Knowing you lets me find out more about you.”

Anysus scrunched his face up. “Yeah, I think that’s how that works.”

“Oh, you jest,” Romulus smiled chillingly, “but you know exactly what I mean. What exactly was that with the fire? You are not a draft animal. I was just making fun of your ancient appearance.”

The bile returned in full force, the acid burning a hole through Anysus’ esophagus until he had no chance to answer.

As a child, under Aranth’s care at his palace in Veii, Anysus had burned himself on a candle. And the formative years were the most powerful. It wasn’t Aranth being a bad babysitter because he was in a meeting at the time. Though Anysus associated the immediate aftermath with Aranth’s sympathetic aura, he still thought of fire as something that could bite him.

“Your eyes are bulging, so I’ll move on,” Romulus shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, you should hear the things my historians say about you! They almost want us to be in love, like Hannibal and Scipio respecting each other across enemy lines. When the second war ended, everyone feared Rome slipping back into some kind of lethargy. No enemy had energized the _Res Publica_ so much.”

The flattery left a bad taste in Anysus’ mouth. Sure, he was hot, but… “The only person with an opinion about me I know is Cato.”

“ _Carthago delenda est_.” Romulus gave a shit-eating grin. “Ah, he is an outlier… Most people do not believe Carthage should be destroyed.”

“He’s obsessed with cabbages, and my Mago’s agricultural texts are the sources that let his addiction flower!” Anysus waved his arms in the air in frustration.

“I don’t know who that is. Your names are stupid,” Romulus said. “But that’s what I mean—knowing you lets me find out more about myself.”

The Carthaginian raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you don’t want to know yourself.”

“I don’t,” Romulus said simply. “That’s why I fight so many more people who aren’t you.”

“I know. I can list them off,” Anysus huffed. He began to grip the table with one hand until his knuckles blanched. “What have you done with Sekhet?”

“The old man’s losing his wits,” Romulus guffawed. “Worried about your old nanny, are you? I haven’t even looked at Egypt. The Ptolemies have it; I have to get the Greeks first. And to get the Greeks, I have to go through those mountainous Macedonians.”

Frowning, Anysus stood up and began pacing around his side of the table. It was to relieve anxiety, sure, but Anysus secretly hoped it tired him out enough to pass out again. At least he wouldn’t have to listen to Romulus speak.

Romulus was like a plague taking the world by storm. The only casualty who worried him besides Sekhet was Timandros. A shade of off-Greek, he wasn’t as xenophobic as the rest—couldn’t be, as the Greeks were xenophobic towards him. Thus, he and Anysus got along swimmingly. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and a Macedonian king tried to ally with Carthage during the second war. However, Rome intercepted the messengers. Perhaps killed them? Anysus couldn’t recall.

The same treatment went for the Etruscan towns that sided with Rome during the first war because of Aranth’s inner conflict and the Celts that Romulus won to his side through scare tactics.

Either way, Romulus had isolated Anysus in both romance and friendship.

Romulus cleared his throat. “Are you still with us?”

Anysus blinked and gaped like a beached whale.

“I thought you were thinking up something clever to retort. I see now I was wrong,” Romulus shrugged. “Why are we discussing other people, anyway? Sekhet’s lands would make a wonderful bread basket, but someone else lives in North Africa, too. This meeting is about you.”

“My friends’ _lives_ are on my list,” Anysus huffed incredulously, “of things you have taken from me in these few centuries.”

Leaning back into the reclining couch, the Roman laughed. “What, did you make an alphabetized list?”

Anysus stopped pacing. He cemented two large hands on the table and leaned over. “My alliances, Aranth, friends, hope, mental health…”

Romulus piqued an eyebrow. “Have you actually thought about this?”

“My peace, regular eating habits, riches, ships, and sleep schedule.”

“Now,” Romulus laughed quietly, “you’re just inflating my ego. I did not even know about some of those, old man.”

Anysus’ face burned. Since when did he become an oversharer? Since before he met with Geta, he supposed. “Well, it’s too late to use them against me now,”

“It’s never too late.” Romulus had on the vestiges of a smile on his curled lips, but his muddy eyes were hardening to flint. “Sit down, won’t you? You are making me anxious.”

Balling his hands into fists, every bone in Anysus’ body protested as he listened to orders. Perhaps a glimpse of the near future, Anysus thought.

“Now, we’re on the same level again.” Romulus drummed his fingers on the table with one hand. With the other, Romulus produced a gilded dagger from a fold in his cloak.

Anysus pressed his lips together in a line. “Have you been waiting to use that prop?”

“Shut up,” Romulus hissed, placing the dagger on the table. He spun it around on the table by pinching the blade with his fingers. “ _Carthago_ , I think it is time we talk about your… misdeeds.”  

“I couldn’t agree less.” It was Anysus’ turn to chuckle. “I have not done anything wrong. It is not my fault you could not convince my people that we were signing away our freedom. We are not so easy to conquer as the Italians. We have the indomitable spirit of the sea. Debt paid, servitude over.”

Romulus rolled his eyes, the motion made grotesque by the candle illuminating the barbaric concaves of his bone structure. “Your precious Aranth is included in that group.”

“Your _older brother_ ,” Anysus reminded him, “also did. Etruscan pirates were fierce. And he signed no treaty; you held the death of his people over his head. In Veii—”

“I was there!” Instead of reclining on the couch, Romulus sprang forward. “You’re a nation, not a historian!”

“We all have our own roles.” It was Anysus’ turn to smile. “Aranth was an artist, created life. You are a destroyer.”

The younger representative tilted his chin towards the ceiling. “You are avoiding the subject at hand, Karthasiu.”

“Alright, Lauchasiu.” Anysus raised his open palms in defeat. “First, your letter said that Carthage needs to appease the Romans for fighting back against Numidia instead of conveniently dying. But—how do you appease a man actively working at trying to own everything in the world?”

Romulus gave the dagger one last twirl. He stopped the hilt in a chokehold when the blade pointed at Anysus. Romulus lifted it up from the table in that position, knifepoint aiming straight for Anysus’ throat. “You don’t.”

The Carthaginian looked across the table with a blasé expression. “Ah. You can’t even give me one demand? Not something like, ‘Cut your right arm off and we’ll postpone war for a half a year?’”

“Not nearly enough sacrifice. We’re immortal. It would grow back,” Romulus pointed out. He shoved the dagger closer to the fruit in the center of the table. It was because the play was over, but Anysus chuckled, thinking that made it look like a carving knife.

The Roman continued, “And to answer your question, we are in talks of what demands to make on Carthage. I can’t reveal anything to you just yet, except for the fact that, if they are not met, it will be war.”

“Ah,” Anysus smiles genuinely. “Then I can go home.”

He leaned over the table. When Anysus blew out the candle, both men blinked. Anysus had wanted to plunge Romulus into darkness, but the level of light in the room did not dip, even for a second. Even for a representative, whom the gods of time despised for their divine powerlessness over them, that was the shortest night of Anysus’ life.

Standing up, Anysus found out just how delirious he was; he saw two Romuluses for a second, and that was his worst nightmare. When his vision returned, Anysus still leaned on the table for support. At this point in the night—day?—Anysus stopped caring about displays of weakness. Maybe Romulus would feel an ounce of pity for once in his antipathic life. Perhaps he would not feel so justified in starting a war to destroy a man already dead.

“Where are you going?” Romulus shouted when Anysus gathered enough strength to walk out. When Anysus didn’t answer, Romulus put a hand on the low table and leaped over it.

That was a stunt Anysus could have pulled two centuries ago.

The Carthaginian glanced behind him. “You gave me everything I needed to know.”

Grabbing Anysus by the arm, Romulus brought them face to face. “What are you talking about? We haven’t discussed any of the terms!”

Anysus raised a defiant finger. “But there are terms. And you do not have enough power to declare war yourself.” Somewhere in him, Anysus found enough power to shoulder Romulus off of him. “I only wanted to know how long I had until the war began. Since it is ruled by how we answer the terms, I control the timing. That is more agency than I’ve had in years.”

Anysus could see Romulus’ ears slowly burning red. “Why in _Dis_ are you so determined on having a war?”

“Because you were first,” Anysus said, staring down at the shorter man. “You cannot let sleeping dogs lie or dying men die peacefully.”

The nation of Carthage stomped out of the room on his worn sandals. He could hear furious, short strides following him like the angriest duck in existence instead of the proud eagle the Romans tried to be. Anysus made sure to step on the heads of all the Roman gods on the mosaic floor.

Sure enough, when Anysus escaped his rustic prison, rosy-fingered dawn was breaking outside. The world was born anew in rose gold dew.

They had not passed the stables on the way up, so Anysus headed behind the villa.

Romulus still waddled behind him. “What are you talking about? You really are losing it, old man!” he screeched into the peaceful morning.

“And you never had it,” Anysus shot back, walking faster up the hill. “I am still the biggest threat in your hyperfixated mind, worthy of a third war, and I sleep on the stairs when my new toothpick legs can’t take me any further because of inflation.”

“Okay, that’s a little weird,” Romulus huffed. He caught up to Anysus and was ranting beside him. “But—”

Anysus stopped.

There was only so much heartbreak Anysus could handle on one trip. Now at the top of the hill, Anysus could see the landscape around him. Behind him, were Romulus’ plentiful vineyards, of course. To the left, the Tiber, and to the right, some flat grasslands for grazing animals. The hill and its neighbors were like a miniature of the world.

And to the front, a thinning, weeping forest that made Anysus’ joins lock.

“You built your damn villa,” Anysus murmured, his neck shaking back and forth with the effort, creaking like one of the mighty stumps before them, “on the Silva Ciminia?”

Fresh tears sprung to the older nation’s eyes. A natural land barrier between Etruria and Rome, the Romans held the forest in esteemed regard, but at a terrified arm’s length. Romulus would never go into the Silva Cimina as a child, not even with someone else, though he would other forests. Anysus and Aranth, on the other hand, used the beautiful oak forest for all their romantic picnics and hikes together. The broad emerald leaves hid the lovers from sight, and there were even waterfall pools to go skinny dipping in.

“Well, I wanted to stay close to Rome,” Romulus explained flippantly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “So I thought I’d stay within the forest lines.”

“Don’t feed me that. You could have built so much closer to Rome,” Anysus huffed. “What are you, a masochist? You hate this place!”

That was when Romulus grinned. “But you don’t.”

Without warning, Anysus surged forward and grabbed Romulus by the tunic. Hoisting the other off the ground until his feet dangled, using the vestiges of his nation strength, Anysus hissed, “Did you use that lumber to build?”

Romulus furrowed his thick brows. Instead of a sheepish _maybe_ , he retorted, “Yeah, where else was I supposed to get it?”

He and Aranth had taken turns carving pictures and notes into the trees for each other—Punic for the dirtier ones, so no one could read them. Anysus dropped the other on his ass. Romulus groaned, and before he could stand, Anysus leaned over until his back ached and socked the Roman in the cheek.

After a night of self-deprecation and prophesying his own demise, Romulus was stunned more out of mental shock than the blow. His face was warm, and upon touching his lip, his fingertips came away bloody. The nosebleed was already dripping into his mouth; Romulus tasted metal.

When Anysus’ shadow still loomed over him, heaving relentlessly, Romulus smiled with blood between his teeth. “Correction: I used to hate this forest, _Carthago_ , because it was Aranth’s. And _di immortales_ , everything was Aranth’s.” He spit out a blood clot. His eyes met Anysus’, and with the morning sun blazing on them, they became a hellish burgundy. “It cut off my land, choking my people. But now it’s mine, and I can do whatever I want with it.”

There was only one logical conclusion the men could come to, as men do: shove each other down the hill.

As he was standing, Anysus did first. After leaping forward, Anysus grabbed Romulus by the shoulders and pinned him beneath. Both nations yelled. Romulus had stronger legs, so he curled up and used his feet to push him up off the ground. Here, he could knee Anysus in the stomach, causing Anysus to fall farther down the hill, slamming heavily on his back. Though Anysus seemingly gave up the ghost, he had enough wits about him to choke Romulus’ neck instead his shoulders. Connected, Romulus came tumbling too.

And they rolled like that, all the way down the hill.

In his own house, on his own land, Romulus had eaten both a bountiful lunch and dinner, had slept like a baby the night before. Anysus had been fed mere tablescraps for lunch and no dinner, for he gave up his bread to the all of the black birds of death. He was running on the high of emotion alone. For the Silva Cimina, for Aranth, for the people he representated that kept him alive.

At the bottom of the hill, beside the Tiber, while Anysus was blinded by tears, Romulus got to return the favor, punching Anysus in the jaw instead of the nose. It was where Anysus _had_ been aiming; both of their noses were already big enough. Anysus grabbed his mouth flooding with metallic liquid, biting his tongue in the process. Romulus kneed Anysus in the chest, wrestling himself free.

“Just what has gotten into you, old man?” Romulus shouted, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Instead of cleaning his face, it left an irate smear of dried blood.

Anysus took one final breath. “A spirit that should have gotten into me a long time ago. The first time I infiltrated your countryside.”

And with that, Anysus jumped, wrapped his arms around Romulus, and let them both fall into the river.

There was more than the normal amount of dew on the the peridot grass, so both men’s robes were already dotted in moisture. If they weren’t already clinging to the men’s frames, they were now. It must have rained earlier in the week; the Tiber was gushing with unladen energy.

“I’m afraid of the ocean, not of my own birth river, you idiot!” Romulus managed to yell before getting a mouthful of water. Pinned by Anysus’ arms, the rest of his words transformed into desperate gurgling.

Anysus hadn’t really thought this out. He didn’t know what was next, it was hard to hear each other over the rushing rapids, and he didn’t have a change of clothes for the ride home. “I’m not stupid either!”

The water here was too shallow to drown Romulus; though he could always choke the other, Anysus hadn’t considered either a possibility, anyways. Rumor had it, where you killed one Roman, five more popped up in his place.

Where the men had entered, too, the fleeing water turned turbid from their wrestling bodies kicking up sediment. Romulus used this fact against Anysus, and splashing the other in the face, Anysus also received a handful of mud in his eyes.

Screaming, Anysus let go of Romulus’ bull neck and cradled his face. While trying to wash his eyes out with clearer water, Romulus grabbed Anysus by the tunic and pulled the Carthaginian down beside him.

Laying sideways on the river bed, nothing stopped the Tiber from pushing them downstream towards the villa while simultaneously sucking out Anysus’ Tyrian purple dye from his robes. The stream of magenta coming off of them was even larger than the stream of blood; or maybe it was blood, for Romulus had some on his hands.

Romulus spit out some river water, tinted rust. “Knock it off, old man, or I’ll tell them to send the troops to Africa a year early!”

“You mean you’ll suck an old guy’s dick and hope he listens to your pretty little plea!” Anysus punched at the water blindly.

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have your dick companion anymore!” One time when Anysus punched, he grabbed the fist and twisted.

One arm bent painfully, Anysus bitch slapped Romulus across the face until the other let go. “And whose fault is that, you greedy bastard?”

“Greedy? Now, look who’s talki—”

“ _Dominus_? _Dominus_!” came a thin, watery cry from the riverbank.

Both men sat up in the water.

“ _Dominus_ and f—friend,” Syrus said, wringing his hands. “I thought I heard trouble!”

They had been embroiled in a shouting match to even hear each other. Anysus could hear his vocal chords frying just as he breathed.

With a sudden wash of shame, clearer and stronger than any Tiber water, Anysus stood up and walked to the riverbank. Letting his appearance go in his depression, Anysus had not cut his hair in years. Now, the matted, raven black strands cut into his eyes. Anysus coughed up more and more water with each step.

They had been acting like children! Though Anysus kept the surname Barca because no other dynasty had risen to power since the second war, Anysus vowed to never act like them, especially after their misdeeds with Roman fire and Etruscan grave-robbing. And yet, here he was, returning to Rome over and over again as the definition of insanity. It was the Barcas that had gotten Anysus into this mess, but it was Anysus himself who would get his people out.

In a moment of clarity, Anysus began crying anew.

“Where are you going, you filthy coward?” Romulus stood once Anysus had exited the Tiber. Though Anysus knew Romulus was a worthy adversary and would give the Mediterranean to the underworld soon, right now, shivering in his flattened curls and soaked tunic, Lucius Marius Priscus Romulus just looked like a drowned rat.

The Carthaginian looked at Syrus the driver and motioned for him to follow.

“Home!” Anysus spat back, projectiles of blood and tears accompanying his words. “For… for as long as I have left!”

**Author's Note:**

> if you're curious, i have a personal blog at https://52px.tumblr.com/ where i post more fics and my drawings. i also run an aph ancients discord server called 'the nursing home.' it can be found by visiting https://52px.tumblr.com/post/173005624798/.
> 
> if you're hankering for more anysus content, i rp him at http://qarthadasht.tumblr.com/. i also have another ao3 series with him called 'a human being can survive almost anything,' located at https://archiveofourown.org/series/907950.
> 
> that's it, and thank you so much for reading!


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